


The Boy-Who-Lived-Next-Door

by Arsonic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-05-17 02:26:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14823458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsonic/pseuds/Arsonic
Summary: In which Voldemort moves into the quiet suburb of Surrey to observe the being that is Harry freaking Potter.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Contrary to popular belief, Voldemort wasn’t an idiot. He wasn’t insane either.

 

Well, he was a _little_ bit so when he had been in wraith form, and when he had been brought back using Potter’s blood. But that had been fixed easily enough when he realised he was far too weak and the fear that Wormtail had ruined the ritual somehow, making him weaker, had him making his way down the hill to the Gaunt shack to get the ring and merge with the horcrux within it. It had restored to him a vast deal of his power, his common sense and his charming good looks and he had realised how badly he’d fucked up his mission.

 

Honestly, he’d been an idiot, too worried that his more important, more pure in blood and consequently inbred, rabid, and insane Death Eaters wouldn’t follow him unless he let them have their fill of bloodshed. He’d given in too much to their lunacy and more than anything else, this had been his downfall. He could see the way Lucius and Severus cowered in front of him, a pretence of course, but one still valid because they were still _afraid_ of him.

 

When did he become Dumbledore? When did Voldemort first begin to require this obedience, this fear from his followers?

 

Oh, he’d always _wanted_ it of course, but even at his worst he had known that it just wasn’t feasible  and had never _needed_ it. The similarities between him and Dumbledore were far too many and it concerned him.

 

Merging with the ring horcrux though, it had made him a bit nervous. Were the rest of his soul phylacteries fine?

 

It would be a risk to go to Hogwarts to find the diadem, a risk he _would_ take, but later, using Lucius’ power as the head of the board of governors. Bellatrix would have to be broken out of Azkaban to check on the goblet, unfortunately, and the locket was in that cave far away.

 

The Diary was close by and so he demanded Lucius present it.

 

The anger when he found out Lucius had lost it, had him all but going insane again. He made his way into Lucius’ mind to rip the information straight from the source, now untrusting of what the man would withhold.

 

It angered him beyond belief to know how his soul fragment had been destroyed. That it had been done by a fresh faced pre-teen was humiliating and yet…

 

And yet.

 

How _fascinating_ that the boy should be a parselmouth. That he should face and kill the giant basilisk that even _he_ had feared, back when he was still just Tom, that Potter should be bitten by the damn thing and yet survive, in the process finding Gryffindor’s sword, an artefact Tom had coveted as a horcrux for ages.

 

But no matter how interesting, the events left him with a loose end. There was a giant hunk of his soul floating around in the aether as a spirit and he needed to anchor it to himself somehow.

 

There was only one way to regain a piece of soul lost in such a manner. Remorse, true remorse.

 

It would be difficult, painful. Remorse was something he had always struggled to feel, it was an anathema to him.

 

But then, once upon a time, failure was an anathema to him as well, and now...now it was so common, so well known to him, like eggs for breakfast.

 

Remorse, then.

 

A deep regret.

 

He regretted the entire Chamber of Secrets episode. It had resulted in Hogwarts being nearly shut down.

 

He regretted Myrtle’s death. It had been accidental and meaningless, and the Warren line had been lost with her.

 

He regretted killing the Potters, all over a half heard prophecy.

 

He regretted breaking his word to Severus.

 

He regretted many things, but apparently it wasn’t strong enough.

 

And Voldemort thought back to the night of the ritual, of Harry Potter, of the way he stood so tall, not unafraid, no, but more than willing to face him nonetheless.

 

He regretted more than anything else, underestimating Harry Potter.

 

* * *

 

His last regret does it, and he finds himself flooded with the memories of the Diary soul piece. Of the insipid conversations with the Weasley girl, her raptures over Harry Potter, of talking to the Boy-Who-Lived himself, of the obsession growing, of spelling his identity out on flaming letters, of feeling burnt inside out by the basilisk venom and yet in his last moments, his every sense focussing on the boy with the giant hole in his arm from a basilisk fang, the admiration he felt that even when Potter thought he was dying, he still had the presence of mind to take Tom down with him.

 

It was beautiful, that vindictiveness, parading itself as righteousness.

 

He needed to know more.

 

* * *

 

Finding the boy is easy, ridiculously so. Lucius, already desperate to gain his approval given the fiasco that was his attempt at keeping the diary safe, talks Fudge over and gets the address of Harry Potter’s muggle home. With the diary piece assimilated, Voldemort is more Tom than ever and with a slight glamour, a little tweak of his nose, a darkening of his pale eyes, he is all but unrecognisable, albeit far more human than when he had been first brought back.

 

He doesn’t know the place well enough to apparate to it and decides to use muggle means to get to the boy. It is a chore in itself to learn how the muggle world has changed but he does so out of necessity and is fascinated by how far they’d come. It drives him nearly to distraction but he learns and eventually he is on a bus out to Surrey to Number 4, Privet Drive.

 

What he finds is interesting to say the least. His nemesis lying on the patch of grass under a window in muggle clothes far too large on his tiny frame.

 

He didn’t know much about current muggle trends but he still knew enough to know this was not normal behaviour. He put on the enchanted glasses and saw the boundaries of the wards, saw a pink haired chit hanging around the house under an invisibility cloak, watching the boy. He closed his eyes and reached out with his magic to find the wards offered him no resistance, as he suspected. He had used Potter’s blood in the ritual after all, blood wards were unlikely to hold him back.

 

But then, Dumbledore was counting on his madness, on his ego, to keep Voldemort from coming down himself to face Potter. The wards would keep the Death Eaters away but _he_ could so easily walk into Potter’s house, slaughter his family before spiriting the boy away.

 

For a moment he wondered if that was exactly what he should do but…

 

Well, his biggest regret had been underestimating Potter. What better way to get a true idea of what the boy was capable of than to see the environment that created him.

 

He’d have to work out a good way to word it though. He didn’t think his followers would be able to understand why he was moving into a muggle neighbourhood.

 

* * *

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  

Harry was at the very end of his tether. All day long, he'd been sat outside the window, waiting to hear the news, to see what was going on with Voldemort but instead Petunia was having a little tea party with her friends, all talking about the new neighbour.

 

Old Mrs Hess who lived next door, had decided to move to the country and stay with her son for some reason. Harry thought it was very strange, Mrs Hess had been incredibly angry about how her son had been gay, that it was unnatural. Her rants on the topic were many and varied.

 

It was one of the reasons why Petunia had liked her so much, she just  _knew_  that if Mrs Hess knew of magic she would support Petunia in her tirades of how freakish it was.

 

But despite the loss the of her friend, Petunia was very excited, as were her friends. The new tenant was apparently a handsome fellow, so young, so dashing, so accomplished.

 

They sighed in unison.

 

Vernon was excited too, glad to have some new blood in the neighbourhood, more than willing to show the chap around and point out the people and places he needed to avoid— _such as that blasted nephew of his_.

 

It was unnerving. There hadn't been so much excitement in Privet Drive in years, if ever. There were mostly middle aged family folk and the elderly who lived there, the twenties and thirties crowd tended to live closer to the city. Harry and Dudley's gang were some of the eldest 'children' around.

 

Harry thought it was suspicious but couldn't say anything. After all, as a student of St Brutus' home for criminally violent children or whatever the place was, his words had no weight at all. He sighed once more and got up from his place, deciding to go on a walk about the neighbourhood so he could hear himself think.

 

Two weeks were left for his birthday. It was the same every year, hiding from the Dursleys, eating the cakes sent by his friends in secret, letters and presents. Just once, he'd like to actually celebrate the day he was born. Once, to remind himself that he wasn't an accident of some kind. He'd like it if he didn't have to sing happy birthday to himself alone in his room.

 

He was turning fifteen soon. He'd always liked that number. A multiple of the first three odd numbers, 1,3, and 5. He remembered first year he'd talked about how five was his favourite number to Ron. The five times table was the easiest to remember, he'd said and Ron had looked at him blankly, asked what the use of five tables was unless they were having a big party. Even when he'd explained that in muggle primary school they had to learn multiplication tables, Ron had thought it was odd and then gone on to talk about how seven was supposed to be a special number in the magical world and how the Weasleys were the only family in Britain to have the magical number of seven children.

 

Harry didn't like seven. It was an ugly number. Now  _five_ , five was beautiful.

 

So he walked and counted his steps in sets of fives. It took thirty one sets of five to get to the park.

 

31 of 5. For the first time since he had returned with Cedric's unconscious body in hand, Harry laughed. Another combination of the first three odd numbers.

 

"Something funny?" Asked a voice and Harry whirled, all but ready to whip out his wand but stopped at the last moment. A man stood in front of him, young but not too young with a wry little smile on his face.

 

He was almost pretty in a sharp, hawkish way but too tall to be considered so.

 

Young but not too young, Harry was certain he had found the new resident of Privet Drive.

 

"Just remembered something funny," Harry finally answered the question, shaking himself out of is daze to put his hand forward, "I'm Harry, Harry Potter."

 

"Mervin Quinlan." He said and shook Harry's hand. Harry felt shiverish all of a sudden. It made him wonder if Mervin was magic.

 

But Harry could guess what was happening. It had been a while since he had been touched by someone, after all. This had happened many times over the years, whenever his 'vacation' at the Dursleys ended and he was back in school again. It took a while to get accustomed to the Weasley boys throwing their arms around him casually, always did.

 

He hoped Mervin didn't notice but given the quizzical look he was shooting Harry his hopes were for naught.

 

He took his hands back and shoved them into his pockets to hide the tremor and changed the topic quick as he could. "So, why'd you choose Privet Drive of all places?"

 

Mervin's mouth quirked in a half smile, "I was passing through some time back and thought I saw an old acquaintance I had been looking for. Mrs Hess was looking to rent the house for a while and I needed a place to stay, so it was quite serendipitous."

 

"That's nice." Harry said and silence descended upon them. It brought home the realisation that Harry had no idea how to talk to someone, not really. Certainly not with someone not magical.

 

Mervin seemed undaunted by it though and asked, "Are there any places nearby that I should visit? Anything interesting nearby?"

 

"I don't really know?" Harry said tentatively, "I'm away most of the year at a boarding school, so..." He trailed off and the awkwardness grew but still, Mervin persevered.

 

"So, which house do you stay at?"

 

"Number 4, you'll be moving in right next door."

 

"Ah, so the Dursleys are-?"

 

"Petunia is my mother's sister." Harry said and left it at that. He couldn't lie so easily as to claim them as his family. They were related by blood, and through unfortunate circumstances they shared living spaces for a few months but Number 4, Privet Drive was  _not_  home, and they were  _not_  family.

 

This was getting out of hand and Harry didn't know what else he could possibly say. He simply smiled tightly and finally said, "I think I'm just going to make my way back now."

 

"Oh, of course, Would you mind awfully if I accompanied you? Only, we are going the same way and I'm not quite as familiar with the neighbourhood. Ended up here quite by accident actually, I was hoping to find my house." He laughed sheepishly and Harry had no choice but to acquiesce. As they walked Mervin asked about the houses, their residents and what they were like. Harry had never had many good experiences with them and could only give the man the barest of answers.

 

The Ewans lived four houses way, had two children, Mrs Ewan liked to play bridge and Mr Ewan worked at an accounting firm. That Mr Ewan frequently talked about how Harry was a drain on resources and advised Vernon on how to utilise him to get a tax pay-off went unmentioned. The Millers lived next door to them and they had a son who had gone to school with Harry and was now studying at Smeltings with Dudley. That the boy was a notorious bully and picked on young children with Dudley and Piers went unmentioned.

 

And so it went. They passed by houses and Harry named names. He could feel Mervin losing his patience but truly had no answers to give. When finally Number 4 came into their view, Harry was more than a little relieved. Carrying on conversations was clearly not something he was good at. Instead of parting ways as they should have though, Petunia, looking out the window as she always did had seen them come by and rushed out to greet Mervin, welcome him into their house and sit down for some tea.

 

Harry was shot a glare and told to put the kettle on.

 

He was more than willing to do so, just to get out of making small talk. As he filled the kettle with water he heard Petunia tell Mervin how sorry she was for her nephew, that he was a delinquent, a mad boy, violent you know? Got it from his father, she sighed and told him all about St Brutus'. The conversation then shifted, as most conversations with Petunia tended to do, to her darling son Dudley.

 

Harry came out with the tea tray in his arms and Mervin beamed up at him while Petunia sniffed, "Ah, Harry, your aunt was just telling me about your cousin!"

 

He shifted on the couch, clearly to make room for Harry and with a silent glare Petunia commanded him to sit and pretend. With a sigh, Harry sat down, tuning out Petunia's useless drabble and set about making the tea instead. He took his time with everything and with each calming breath he felt his mind clear, her shrill voice becoming background noise.

 

* * *

 

 

As the Potter boy's mind closed off, occluding itself, the few stray thoughts leaking from him suddenly shutting off, Tom was astounded and  _knew_  that he had been right to try and figure out the boy's powers.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: Okay so, I omitted Cedric’s death because it impacted Harry a great deal emotionally but beyond that it didn’t add much to the plot. I re-read GoF and Voldemort says ‘Kill the spare’ and Peter is the one to do it and Voldie’s wand makes a reappearance when he takes them out of his robe pockets so it doesn’t seem like Peter was using his wand to kill Cedric. So now I’m confused at the fact that Cedric emerged from Voldemort’s wand during the Priori Incantem. I don’t know if it has been resolved by Rowling in some interview or by fans or something but yeah, confusing.**
> 
> **So as per this story, Cedric didn’t die, he was knocked out by Peter and unconscious throughout the proceedings, and so he can’t add anything to Harry’s testimony beyond that the Cup was a portkey that took them to some graveyard..**

 

Harry’s plans to try to lay low and find out what Voldemort was up to by keeping an eye on muggle news, were severely hampered by one Mervin Quinlan.

 

Anytime he laid down to try to listen in on the news, Mervin turned up, waving at him cheerfully. If he went down to the park for some peace and quiet, to be able to think for a bit, Mervin turned up. When he tried to avoid the man by staying indoors all day, he turned up to ask Petunia something, ending with asking about that nephew of hers.

 

It was terrible. Like the Creevey brothers had followed him home.

 

Which was one of the many reasons why Harry was pretty fucking sure, Mervin was a wizard. He just had to be, after all, besides the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, there was nothing special about Harry to earn this stalkerish attention. And as his patience with the man grew shorter and shorter, Harry was certain that one of these days he was just going to burst out and ask the man upfront.

 

It was getting bloody ridiculous!

 

* * *

 

The boy was odd, that was just something accepted, not questionable. Not a single one in the neighbourhood didn’t believe it.

 

But the thing was, it _should_ have been questioned. Harry Potter wasn’t odd at all, even given his tendency to lie underneath windows. But the whole neighbourhood as a whole knew there was ‘something wrong with that boy’.

 

And Tom knew well what it was like for people to think like that. After all, he’d had quite a reputation himself, back in the days when the orphanage was his home. But Harry Potter wasn’t considered the same type of wrong that Tom had been. Tom had been thought odd too, but the kind that was feared, the kind that got people calling for priests to conduct exorcisms, that had people calling up asylums.

 

Harry Potter was the dullest ‘odd’ person Tom had ever known. He wasn’t even odd the way wizards tended to be when trying to fit into the muggle world, no, he was just...quiet, unassuming. It was only when Petunia wasn't around that Tom got somewhat of glimpse into the boy’s mind and it was mundane beyond a bit of suspicion of ‘Mervin’ and the worry of what Voldemort was up to.

 

He worried about his homework, thought about his godfather, thought about Voldemort and counted the steps he took. He disliked the Dursleys but not enough to cause them harm, daydreamed of flying and catching snitches and planned the best way to avoid some people he called the Creeveys. He raged at the unfairness of it all even as none of it showed on his face and went on with his life, quietly.

 

Just what was Harry Potter hiding? He already practiced Occlumency when near Petunia, what else was he up to? Was he putting up a front to distract Tom?

 

Did he _know_ that Tom was there, waiting, watching?

 

* * *

 

The one thing everyone knew about him was that Harry had no patience. Hermione would testify, as would Ron, that Harry was unable to wait. Waiting frustrated him. Waiting made him angry.

 

The other thing that really ticked him off was people keeping him in the dark. It was relatively new for Harry, it had started once he had gotten his Hogwarts letter and realised all the things people were keeping from him. It had only gotten worse in third year when people kept hiding the fact that Sirius was his godfather, when Remus never got around to telling him that he knew his father until a Dementor tried suck his soul out during a Quidditch match.

 

And there Harry was now, in Privet Drive with people blatantly keeping secrets from him, waiting for Mervin Quinlan to slip up so he could just tell the wanker to drop the muggle act already.

 

It was pissing him off.

 

A cracking sound, like that of a car backfiring sounded and from where Harry was weeding the garden he saw Mervin’s eyes narrow and turn to the sound. It sounded very close by and sounded...

 

Not unlike the sound of someone disapparating, the way they had done last year at the Quidditch match. A few screams here and there and Harry would have felt like he’d travelled back in time, hearing those pops as the Dark Mark went up and the Death Eaters vanished.

 

And Harry lost it.

 

“A friend of yours disapparating?” Harry couldn’t help but sneer and inwardly cackled at the look of shock and apprehension on Mervin’s face. Now he’d have to admit to being a wizard.

 

He did but in a way that ended up drying up Harry’s laughter.

 

“No, my friends don’t know I’m here, I reckon it’s one of your minders actually.”

 

“ _My_ minders?”

 

Mervin scoffed, still not looking away from the spot where the sound had occurred, “Not very good minders though, too obvious. Especially this one, seems to shirk his duty often.” Finally Mervin turned to him, “I suppose this one thinks you can handle yourself.”

 

Alarm bells started ringing in Harry’s head and he thought back to the last few weeks, putting together a million clues that he had noticed but never credited to anything until he started looking for it. Now he could see that the feeling of being watched wasn't just Mervin’s doing, now he knew that he wasn't just conjuring things when he thought he heard Moody’s gruff voice, wasn’t just imagining things when he saw things break or move out of place without any reason.

 

There were people watching him.

 

And he was pretty certain they were Dumbledore’s people.

 

He sucked in one long breath and let it out slowly. Closed his eyes and thought of the calm of flying, thought of threes and fives and neat equations, thought of the pitter patter of rain drops on windows.

 

It did not work. And he thought of setting things on fire and breaking someone’s nose under his fist instead.

 

“And what about you, Mervin? If that’s even your name. What are you doing hanging about? Looking for a story to sell the newspapers? Or maybe doing some research of your own?” When the man blanched Harry knew he'd hit the nail on the head. The man was clearly a journalist looking for a story. “Well, what do you want to know then? About how the Boy-Who-Lived is considered a criminal in his home town? Want to get in on the Prophet’s action do you?”

 

* * *

 

Tom was perplexed and more than a little aghast. _This_ was what Harry Potter was suspecting him of?! Of being a _reporter_ of some kind?!

 

He was insulted beyond belief by this. Even at his worst, his most insane when he had been little more than a Crucio-ing, Avada Kedavra-ing megalomaniac, he hadn’t been so horrid as to be a reporter, let alone a reporter of Daily Prophet calibre. And to be accused of such a thing by a boy whose only experience with reporters was Rita Skeeter, it boiled Tom’s blood. Only Dumbledore could rile him up more than this.

 

But...but it was interesting to know. He had feared Harry Potter had seen through his guise but the boy hadn’t. He had assigned him a nefarious purpose, yes, but not ‘Dark’ ones. Not the type that Slytherins were supposed to have.

 

Then again, why would he? What self-respecting Pureblood would go the muggle way, after all? And that was all that Slytherin was known for, self-respecting purebloods. Oh, they didn’t respect anyone else, yes, but an arrogant entitlement, superiority and self-ascribed authority was sure to be had in Slytherin. And pretending to be muggle wasn’t part of it.

 

“Listen, I don’t what you think I am but...I’m new here. I’ve been away from Wizarding Britain for a while. I saw you and I hoped there were other wizards here who weren’t as barmy as the lot in Leaky Cauldron or down in Devon might be. That’s all there’s to it.” Tom said. It was a novel thing to him, saying the truth. Since he’d seen the way Dumbledore reacted to him telling the truth about being a parselmouth all those years ago he hadn’t had the motivation to do so again. Especially when in Slytherin house, saying the truth and confessing to be a halfblood or possibly a mudblood would have been suicide.

 

But Tom told Harry the truth now. Yes, there were other ulterior motives but the bulk of it was true. He was trying to stay away from the barmy lot he was stuck with.

 

Petunia wasn’t around to aid Harry Potter’s Occlumency and Harry was staring straight at him so Tom took a peek into the boy’s mind. And he found that against the odds, Harry believed him.

 

The rush of joy at that thought was probably what caused the next events.

 

After all, Dementors feed on joy. And they swooped down upon them, probably sensing the same.

 

Tom panicked for a bit. He didn’t know if he could use the patronus spell, after all, he was still a broken soul. Still not whole, still marked by the Dark Magic he practiced.

 

But he steeled himself, and in the next second summoned a happy memory and all but shouted, ‘Expecto patronum,’ less from the expectation of saving himself and more from the curiosity of wanting to know what would happen. Would it work? Would it not?

 

When the silvery shroud emerged from his wand and took the form of a snake he was surprised beyond belief. Not only because it had somehow worked but also because of the memory his mind had chosen as a happy one.

 

It wasn’t his moment of magic, wasn’t when he found the fire that Dumbledore had inflicted had left his cupboard unharmed. It wasn’t that ecstasy that followed casting the Crucio nor the moment the Slytherin house had accepted him as the King of their court.

 

It was of the moment when after days of hearing nothing from Ginny, back to the silence that haunted his diary soul piece, when the fear of being alone again like he had been for fifty something years, he saw the words ‘My name is Harry Potter’ written in his diary.

 

The surge of relief and happiness, of the idea of his plans coming finally to fruition. It powered his patronus with such force and intensity that the Dementors were driven back, screaming and screeching.

 

He was broken out of his awed stupor by the murmur of numbers and he turned to find Harry Potter staring at the space the Dementors had been, counting to five over and over again.

 

“Harry,” Tom said, softly so as not to startle him but the boy looked at him, seeming lost and bereft, “Harry, I think someone at the Ministry is trying to kill you.”

 

The boy’s lips twitched up in a baring of teeth, a hissing sound escaping him in a mockery of laughter.

 

“Tell them to get in line after Voldemort and his cronies.” He said with a scoff, the derision in his voice clear. The Dementors hadn’t scared him, rattled him a bit but Harry freaking Potter remained unfazed.

 

Tom twitched, almost wanting to tell the boy exactly who it was he was talking to he he would know that it was Voldemort who had saved him.

 

But that would be tipping his hand far too early. So he snorted instead, “I think they’re jumping the queue.”

 

“How un-British of them.” Harry said before turning to him with a bright and fake grin, “If you will excuse me, I have a few letters to write.”

 

Tom didn’t want it to end, this conversation they were having, the very first one where Harry had said something that wasn’t small talk and he called out to his back, causing the boy to turn in question, “If you need the letters to be howlers...I can help with that.”

 

And the boy smiled, a crooked thing that was the very first unguarded expression Tom had seen on that face, “I’ll think about it.”

 

Then it was Tom’s turn to return to his home and do a little jig.

 

His evil plan was finally working!

 


End file.
